


Overload

by Tartanshell



Category: Daredevil (2003), Daredevil (Comics)
Genre: Gen, M/M, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:39:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tartanshell/pseuds/Tartanshell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt and Foggy get high.  Twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overload

The first time Matt smoked pot, he and Foggy were in rural Connecticut for spring break, staying with Foggy's aunt and uncle. They'd both wanted to get out of the city for awhile, but Florida was too expensive, and, while the fraternity ski trip to Vermont was more affordable, a "normal" blind guy couldn't, and Foggy wouldn't.

So, the farm in Connecticut it was. Foggy's aunt and uncle were great, and the air was so clear it tasted like water, and there was grass. Actual grass. And cows.

And there was Grass. Their second night there, Foggy woke Matt from one of the soundest sleeps of his life, grabbed his hand, and whispered for him to come on without so much as letting Matt grab his slippers. The dirt path was cool under Matt's bare feet, and the grass was wet with dew, wicking damply up the cuffs of his pajama pants.

They walked for awhile, not talking. At last, Foggy came to a stop and let go of Matt's hand. A blanket flapped softly as he shook it out. "Have a seat," Foggy said.

Matt sat, smiling a little. "What's this all about?"

"I've got a surprise for you. Before we left..." Foggy paused dramatically, and his heart sped up as adrenaline spiked his scent, "I got us a _joint_." His voice dropped to a whisper on the word, and Matt fought a laugh.

" _You_ smoke _pot_?"

"A couple times! In high school!" He sounded defensive, and Matt knew him well enough not to press it. Instead, he just shrugged.

"Well, I haven't. But...sure. Why not?"

A lighter clicked, and Matt smelled butane and, after a second, marijuana smoke. Foggy took his hand again, a spot of heat in the cool night, and slid the joint between his fingertips.

Sometime later, Matt lay flat on his back, grinning like an idiot. And he didn't care.

"Should see the stars," Foggy whispered, voice one thread of sound in the tapestry of crickets. "They're so... _bright_ , Matt. Just like...stars."

Matt inhaled deeply and could have sworn he could smell them, far off, like the spark of a lighter. "I can feel _everything_ ," he replied, rolling onto his side, facing Foggy. "I hear everything. The wind in the grass, the crickets, that owl, the cows' heartbeats over there, the way the grass tastes sweet on the tip of my tongue...it's like I'm part of _everywhere_. Like I go on forever, Foggy."

His hand was spread on the blanket, fibers like waffle ridges under his palm. Foggy's hand was still warm as it slid over Matt's. This close, he could feel the pulse in Foggy's fingers. It felt like he had an extra heartbeat in his hand. His wrist, where Foggy's fingertips were, was the center of the universe.

Crickets creaked and chirped by themselves for a few moments, and then Foggy sighed contentedly. "I know _exactly_ what you mean." 

 

*******

 

The second time Matt and Foggy got high together was the summer before their final year of law school, before going to a Queen concert. Foggy got the stuff just for fun, but Matt smoked it in hopes that being high would make him care less about his eardrums bleeding. Wouldn't fix it, but Matt thought it might help. Couldn't hurt, anyway.

They were bobbing up and down with a thousand other people to "Another One Bites the Dust" when Matt realized that it was working. He _didn't_ care. He was higher than he'd been last time, higher than he'd ever been drunk, and God, it felt _good_.

The world was just. There was a light show, he knew, probably red and blue, and he could practically _feel_ them pulsing overhead. Could feel the music pulsing, vibrations like colors in his skull, could feel hundreds, thousands of heartbeats pounding to the beat, sweatdrops shaking, feet stomping, dust kicking up like hot soles of sneakers, taste at the back of his mouth, damp salty cotton t-shirts, (ohGod) wet panties everywhere. Someone moaning like sex thirty feet away.

His ears were buzzing like ten thousand bees. Like the aftermath of a gunshot, ringing, bleeding?, white noise static bright like hot sunlight (hot lights?) on his face.

Guitar chords whining blue and crackling like electricity, like the spark of a shock against his fingertips.

And Foggy, next to him, clutching Matt's hand (which was wrapped around the handle of his cane) and jumping. With the bass throbbing, Matt could almost see him, silhouetted. Could practically feel his grin.

This close, Matt could practically taste his sweat. And maybe it was the pot, but he wanted to lean over and bury his nose in Foggy's curly hair and just drown in him. This close, he was already halfway there.

Wanted to lean over and see if Foggy's skin tasted the way it smelled. Find out of Foggy tasted the way he smelled, a little like beer, a little burnt green smoky, a little like the hot dogs they had awhile ago.

Matt's palms ached with wanting to slide them up under Foggy's shirt and feel the hair he'd heard brushing against cotton shirts, scritching on towels after Foggy got out of the shower.

Onstage, Freddie Mercury called something out, laughing, to the audience. People screamed, raw throated, as he slowly, teasingly, picked out the opening piano notes of "Somebody to Love."

The song was in full swing a minute later when Matt turned to Foggy. Eardrums were definitely bleeding. His heart was racing. He was going to explode in a minute, like the crescendo going on onstage. "I think I love you!"

"What?" Foggy yelled back.

This close, it was easy to hear Foggy's heartbeat, even under the mountains of sound. Felt like it was beating in Matt's chest alongside his own. It always had. And he distinctly felt it skip a beat.

He swallowed hard, tasting smoke and stale beer, and shook his head. "I said...I said I think I'm going to puke!"

And Foggy, good, dependable best friend that he was, tightened his grip on Matt's hand and leaned in close. "Oh, man! Want to get out of here?"

Matt took a deep breath and shook his head. "Nah. This is--I'm good. It's fine."

"Sure?"

"Yeah." Matt forced himself to smile and had a feeling he only got halfway there. "I'm sure."


End file.
